


The Tiny Barbie Shoes of Doom

by tikistitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Evil Barbie, Fluff, Gnomes, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2906126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tikistitch/pseuds/tikistitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam finds himself in the middle of a Holiday from Hell as Dean and Cas are de-aged into kindergarteners by a cursed object in the MoL bunker just as the boys are investigating a series of bizarre murders apparently carried out by a gnome with a grudge or perhaps an evil Barbie doll.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tiny Barbie Shoes of Doom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [staytrashy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/staytrashy/gifts).



> Written for the Dean/Cas Secret Santa Exchange 2014. Thank you to Daniieal for some amazing prompts, and my grateful thanks to Zsomeone for her beta. Legally Blonde Barbie was actually issued in 2003, so there’s no way Sam could snag one in a Toys R Us store, but I thought it would be funny. Like Sam, I couldn't find a whole lot of information on Zlebog, but tomtes are very well known in Scandinavian countries, and are said to be one of the inspirations for Santa Claus.

“Ewwww,” said Dean.

Sam rolled his eyes, but didn't reply. Straightening his tie, he turned to the local constable - an affable blond, ruddy-faced fellow named Jorgensen - and tapped the lurid autopsy photographs spread over his desk. “Are they all like this?”

“Bodies pulled all inside out? Yep.” Officer Jorgensen continued noshing on his pastry. “Maple bar?” he offered, holding out the carton that was sitting on the edge of his desk. Sam waved a hand, but Dean leaned over and grabbed a pastry. “Oh, that's a good one!” said Jorgensen. “That there on top is bacon!”

“Bacon?” asked Dean, his cheeks already bulging. “Awesome!”

“On a donut?” asked Sam, who couldn't avoid a sour look.

“It's not a donut, it's a _maple bar_!” smacked Dean, as if that made any difference.

“And there have been about a half a dozen, so far?” asked Sam, trying to change the subject away from stomach-churning pastry.

“Yep. Six that I can count,” Jorgensen told him. “Three here, three across the county line, in my friend, Chief Sorensen's territory. But all in the same forest.”

“And you think they were all chopping down trees?” asked Dean.

“Well, they're not supposed to, you know, but they come in and cut down the trees. We tend to look the other way. It's Christmas, you know! Well, we ignored 'em until this started happening. I have to say, we're all mighty grateful the feds have taken an interest! Mighty grateful!”

“We were in the neighborhood,” Sam told him. It actually wasn't a lie. The murders (if that's what they were) had all occurred within a few miles of the Men of Letters bunker. “Do you have any theories?”

Jorgensen wiped his fingertips on a paper napkin, and then pressed his hands into a steeple. He looked at Dean, and then at Sam. “I'm gonna show you something. You boys make of it what you will.” He leaned over and pulled out his bottom drawer, and extracted a manila folder. He laid the folder on the table, pulling out a couple of photos. 

Sam and Dean leaned closer.

And then the exchanged a puzzled glance.

“Uh, is that the scale of these footprints?” asked Sam, pointing at the ruler laid out on the ground.

“Yep,” agreed Jorgensen.

“Is that … an animal?”

“Wearing little tiny shoes?” asked Jorgensen. He leaned back in his chair. “Well, could be. I mean, I'm just a small town cop. What do I know?”

Sam made a sour face, and glanced over at Dean.

“You mind if I try another maple bar?” the older Winchester inquired.

 

“Dolls.”

“You think a bunch of dolls went out and murdered six people?” said Sam.

Dean gripped the steering wheel. “ _Evil_ dolls!” he said, slipping into a grin. “Hey, you've seen some of those baby dolls they got. They're totally capable of murder.”

“So, we got half a dozen people out in the forest, murdered by Evil Barbie.”

“Could happen! But those weren't Barbie shoe prints. She wears those little pink high heels, you know.”

“And how is it you're the Barbie expert?” said Sam.

“Hey, isn't that Cas's car?” asked Dean as they pulled in sight of the bunker. It was indeed Castiel's whale of a Lincoln, and the angel himself was standing beside it, waiting. Dean hopped out of the Impala almost before it had pulled to a stop. “Cas! You shoulda called.”

“Hello, Dean,” said Castiel, fixing Dean with one of his thousand-yard stares. “Hello, Sam. I was … in the neighborhood.”

“You come for Christmas?” asked Dean.

“Is it Christmas?” asked Cas, frowning earnestly. “I'm sorry, I haven't been keeping track of time lately.”

“We don't really do anything anyway,” said Sam. “For Christmas.”

“We could do something this year!” Dean offered. “You know, get a tree.”

“Heh. Just not in the Northern Pines state park.”

“Aw, you don't wanna meet Evil Barbie?”

Castiel looked between the two Winchester brothers, trying in vain to derive the meaning of this increasingly odd conversation. At length, it appeared that he gave up. “You may have something that is of use to us in your archives.”

“Well, come on in, then,” said Dean, clapping Cas on the shoulder. “Hey, I could use a beer. How about you?”

“That's a Winchester Christmas,” muttered Sam, who followed them inside. “A six-pack and a football game.”

 

As it happened, one beer turned to two, and then more. And then that turned to beer and pizza, and Dean relating just about every story he could remember that involved young Sammy falling down or making a fool of himself. Of course, Sam needed to retaliate, so much time passed while Cas sat at their dining room table, sipping his beer and contented, while the brothers held forth, capped by a quick summary – as Cas had expressed interest – of their latest hunt. 

Cas scrutinized the photos of the crime scene, including the ones showing faint tracks of what appeared to be very tiny shoes. “Had you considered Zlebog?” he asked.

“We considered Evil Barbie,” Dean told him. 

“Oh. That explains your remark.” Cas paused, and smiled.

“What remark?” asked Dean.

“You mentioned Evil Barbie to Cas but didn't bother to explain, like you _never_ bother to explain,” Sam sighed.

Cas placed the photos down on the table. “I do know what Barbie dolls are. Now I see the connection. Very small footprints. That's actually rather amusing.” He smiled a barely there sort of Cas smile. “However, I believe this is potentially the work of a forest god as opposed to a cursed vinyl doll. Do you see this photo?”

Sam and Dean shrugged and scrutinized one of the photos. “Yeah. Looks like deer tracks,” said Dean. “So we also gotta haul in Bambi’s mom?”

“Look closer,” said Cas.

“What am I looking for?

“Those are goat tracks!” said Cas, confidently tapping his finger on the photo.

Dean stared for a while longer. “The murderer is a Capricorn?”

“Zlebog!” said Cas.

“Gesundheit,” said Dean.

“He is a goat-like forest deity. They often have the tomtes in their thrall.”

“And tomtes are the Evil Barbies? Or the … what did you call it?”

Cas's head listed to the side, as it tended to do. “You might know tomtes as gnomes.”

Dean howled with laughter. “Ha! The garden gnomes did it! That's even better than Evil Barbie.”

“Axe Murderer Barbie,” chuckled Sam. Now that he'd had a couple beers, Dean actually seemed funny, though not nearly as funny as he thought himself. “I should actually look this up,” he said, grabbing his laptop. “How did you spell _Ze-blog_ again?”

“Zlebog,” Cas corrected.

Dean was leaning back on the rear legs of his chair. “Hey, Cas, didn't you say you needed something from the archives?”

Castiel nodded. “Oh, yes, that was the purpose of my visit. I was wondering if you had a certain item in your archives. It might be a help to us.”

“You mean the angels?” asked Dean.

Cas nodded, but suddenly seemed tight-lipped about everything. 

“What do you need, Cas?” asked Sam, who was still hunched over his laptop. “Anything.” Dean nodded too.

At length, Cas asked, “Do you think you have, in your archives here … any angel feathers?”

“Yeah, sure!” said Dean. “I don't just think, I know!”

Cas was staring at the floor now. “As you know, our ability to fly was taken away by Metatron's spell. Our wings....” Cas trailed off. “Our own feathers are damaged. Burnt.”

Dean put a hand on his shoulder. “You wanna fly again, Cas? And give up that sweet ride of yours?”

Cas gave a wry smile. “I like the car.”

“It's an awesome car!” Dean stood, though he was obviously a little worse for wear from the beer. “A classic! Anyway, come on. Let's look for some angel feathers, and Sammy can geek out in peace.” 

Sam was still staring at his laptop. “You need help, Dean?” he muttered.

“Naw, Cas and I can find it. You go on and nerd out over Slobbo-“

“Zlebog,” said Cas.

“Whatever,” said Dean, grinning and slapping Cas on the shoulder as they headed down the hall. “Hey, did I ever tell you about the time-”

Sam rolled his eyes as Dean and Cas – thankfully – moved out of earshot. “Get a room, you two,” he muttered, though not without affection. His brother lit up like the Times Square Christmas tree whenever the angel was around. But Sam knew Dean, and realized he was probably too much of a bonehead to realize what was really going on.

After a bit, Sam scooped up his laptop and sprawled out his long frame over the couch. He was rapidly going frustrated. After much digging, his biggest finding about Zlebog was that there was almost nothing about him online. He had just clicked around to find the exact same reference for the third time when he sensed something was wrong. It wasn’t exactly a sight or a sound, or even a smell. Just a feeling that something – something – had happened. 

Just then, he heard it: the pitter patter of little feet. And they were coming closer!

He set the laptop aside, and was just reaching around for a weapon when a small body hurtled into the room, throwing itself at him. 

“Sammy!” 

Sam froze and stared in horror at the creature that was now clinging to his waist. It definitely wasn’t Evil Barbie, and it didn’t appear to be a gnome. It was sandy-haired, and swimming in a Led Zeppelin T-shirt that was at least six sizes too big. He carefully set his weapon down on the end table, next to the laptop. “Uh, hello?”

The interloper drew back, gazing up at him with a sunny smile. “Hey, Sammy!” Sam regarded the face: a spray of freckles over the nose, and two apple-green eyes.

Sam blinked, unable to believe what he was seeing.

Just then, another figure hurried into the room, trailing behind it a ridiculously long, tan coat. “Sam!” came a small but grave voice. 

Brushing aside the first child, Sam slid off the couch and crouched down low in order to look the second in the eye. A pair of wide blue eyes stared at him under a tangle of dark hair. “Sam,” said the serious boy.

“Cas?”

“Sam, I am afraid your brother mishandled one of your cursed objects,” said the Cas child solemnly. It was weird, like a chibi version of the angel, eyes too big and voice like an LP record played at 45.

“Wanna play demons and ninjas, Sammy?” asked the Dean kid, who had hopped off the couch and come bounding over. 

“Dean?” Sam asked.

“Duh!” said the Dean kid, rolling his eyes. “Whatcha readin’ about, Sammy?” he asked, sliding back on the couch and grabbing the laptop. “Hey, you got any games loaded on here?”

“Dean!” warned Sam. And then he wasn’t certain what else to say. “Uh. Be careful with that!” He turned to face Cas again. “Cas, what happened?”

“We were trying to locate an angel feather, Sam,” kid Castiel explained. As it turned out, Dean had evidently seen a sigil on the box that looked something like a feather, and had impulsively opened it up and then grabbed the amulet. Typical Dean! 

“I recognized the sigil as a warning, but too late, Sam! I attempted to intervene, but ended up coming into contact with the amulet at approximately the same time as your brother.” 

“And then – poof?” asked Sam. Cas nodded glumly. Instant kid-ification. It was almost funny. Almost. “But, you're still you, and Dean's now a kid?”

“Perhaps the spell only affected my vessel, Sam,” said Cas. The boy was swimming in Cas’s trench coat. And … there was something weird about him. 

“Cas, are you sure you're OK?” Sam asked. “Well, I mean, I know you’re not OK, but….” He pointed. The coat was definitely poofing out in the back. Had the de-aging spell – or whatever – twisted up Cas’s body somehow?

“I believe I am fine, Sam. Other than the apparent changes to my vessel.”

“Look at your back.”

Cas turned his head. “Oh!” With Sam’s help, he eased off the coat. 

Two dark wings sprang out. 

“Coooool!” said Dean, who hopped back down from the couch. _My brother has attention deficit,_ Sam thought glumly.

Cas hitched up his huge white pair of boxer shorts and frowned. After peeling off the trench coat, he was left wearing only the underwear and the shredded remains of his adult dress shirt, which was apparently ripped up by the wings growing out. At least that was all Sam could figure. “That was unforeseen,” said Cas, ruffling the wings. “I usually leave my wings manifest on the astral plane. Perhaps the spell interfered with this?”

“Can I touch ‘em?” asked Dean, who heedlessly wove a small hand into the feathers.

“Be careful, Dean!” Sam warned, still not quite believing that this pint-sized person was actually his big brother.

“Soft!” said Dean as Cas tentatively extended a wingtip. “You should pet him, Sammy! He's cool.”

“He's not a pet, Dean! Cas, we gotta figure out what it was you guys touched,” said Sam. “And what to do about it. We can’t leave you like this.”

“I believe I know the exact volume we need to consult,” Cas informed him. “It was located nearby.”

Thank god for small measures. “Well that’s a relief!” Sam told him.

But then Cas was silent. His dark wings seemed to droop. “There is a problem, Sam.”

Sam got worried all over again. “What’s wrong, Cas?” he asked. It was probably in some obscure volume written in a weird language only known by three beings. Sam suddenly had visions of impractical deals with Crowley. Why was his life so complicated?

Cas frowned. “Sam, is it possible that you have a ladder, or maybe a step stool, or something of the sort?”

 

As it turned out, the book had been up on a high shelf, and kid!Cas was simply too short to reach it. Sam, of course, had no problem grabbing it. It was indeed written in some kind of weird old language, but Cas had told them that he read and spoke passable Sumerian.

So while Cas studied the book – he was sitting up in a chair at the dining room table, his legs tucked underneath him, wings folded up behind, the picture of studiousness – Sam took care of the amulet. 

As Cas had instructed him to avoid any more physical contact with the item, Sam had dug out a couple of welder’s gloves and then used tongs to pick up the necklace and place it back in the box. And then he set the box very high up on a shelf, high enough so his dumb brother wouldn’t be able to reach it.

After securing the cursed amulet, Sam came back out to the main room, where Cas was still studying the book, and Dean was playing something called Subway Surfer on Sam’s old iPad. Sam had managed to wrest his laptop away from the kid, and Dean had immediately gone for the app store. 

“Vrrrrrom! Here I go. Hey, Cas, you gotta try this. I got all the coins. And I get to play as Darth Vader!”

“Perhaps later, Dean,” Cas muttered. He looked up at Sam, his face as serious as his current human five-year-old features could be. 

“So, you got any ideas, Cas?”

“Unfortunately, my conversational Sumerian is a little rusty, and this book is written in an odd dialect. Still, I believe I have gleaned the implications of the magic which Dean and I have been affected by.”

“Well, OK, so what do we gotta do to reverse it?”

“There was no word about reversing the spell.”

Sam blinked. He pulled out a chair and sank down next to Cas. He felt like he’d been hit in the stomach. “No way to reverse it?” His mind suddenly filled with images of securing college funding for a child and an angel. 

“Look, Sammy!” said Dean, who had pushed the iPad in front of his brother. “I’ve almost made a million gold coins!”

“That’s great, Dean,” said Sam.

“Aww, you’re not looking!”

“There is no need to reverse the spell, Sam,” Cas continued.

Sam turned around. “Wait, why is that, Cas?”

“Because it's temporary.”

Sam heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh, great! So, what have we got, a couple hours?”

“I believe, if I am reading this passage correctly, the duration of the spell is seven days.”

“Seven days. A week?” Sam’s eyes drifted over to his brother, who was frantically pawing away at the iPad. Well, all right: he put up with a week of this. He’d have to!

“Yes, Sam. Seven day is a week.” Cas paused, frowning. His dark-feathered wings twitched. “At least, I believe so.”

“Wait, you believe so?”

“Well, unless it actually says ‘seven weeks.’”

“Seven weeks?” asked Sam. Cas's dark wings were now arched up.

“Or perhaps ‘seven months.”

“Seven … _months?_ ”

“But I’m fairly certain this does in fact read, ‘seven days.’”

Sam counted to ten. And then he counted to twenty. And then he began to count to one hundred.

“You don’t happen to have a Sumerian to Enochian dictionary around her, do you?” Cas inquired, his wide blue eyes searching the room.

“Sammy!” shouted Dean, who was once again shoving the iPad in front of Sam. “What are we gonna do for Christmas?” Sam now glanced up at the screen: it was opened to a Toys R Us Christmas sale. “Look at the Nerf guns!”

Sam huffed a laugh. And then he started counting. “Huh, seven days you said? That would take us until Christmas.” Normal people thought about Christmas, although it had never been among the Winchester family priorities.

“I- I may have to remain here until that time,” Cas said very softly. “I am afraid my vessel’s legs are no longer adequately long to operate the floor peddles of my vehicle. And- And I'm not certain about going out in public, as I am not able to hide my wings.” He ruffled his dark little wings for emphasis.

Sam noticed the angel's worried face. And his wings were drooping again. “Yeah, you can stay here, Cas. No problem.”

“Are you certain it will be no burden on you?” Cas asked, his eyes gone wide as the sky.

“No, Cas, that’ll be awesome!” said Dean, who bounced down and ran around to sit by Cas instead. “Cas can stay here for Christmas! And we can make hot chocolate and put out cookies and wait for Santa and _everything!_ ”

Sam cast a glance at his brother. Where was Dean getting this stuff? Grown-up Dean was like the world's biggest Grinch! “No problem, Cas. You’re always welcome here,” Sam assured him, though the angel still appeared dubious. 

Sam decided that getting Cas settled in for the week ahead was perhaps in order, as then maybe he could send his idiot kid-ified brother to bed and figure out what to do next. But Dean wouldn't hear of letting Cas take a room on his own. “No! Cas is gonna stay in my room and we'll have a sleep over and play games!” Dean insisted. Sam quickly gave up on arguing with him and, with the kids' “help,” dragged an extra mattress and some blankets linens into Dean's room. 

Cas seemed a little chilly, running around in nothing but those ridiculous adult-sized boxer shorts, so Sam found the kids some small-ish sweatpants (it wasn't hard to locate stuff Dean had shrunk in the wash) and then, since Cas's wings wouldn’t fit into a normal sweater, he grabbed a snuggie that one of them had got the other as a joke at one point. Cas donned it gratefully, and Dean sat down next to him on the floor at the end of his bed with the iPad, vowing to make Cas an expert in Subway Surfer. 

Sam left them to their own devices. Since he was an organized sort of person, he sat down with his laptop out in the dining room to plan what they would need for the coming seven days – or weeks or months if it came to that – while they waited out the spell. Obviously, Dean wouldn't be able to drive to run errands, and Cas wouldn't be able to leave the bunker at all – not if they didn’t figure out a way to hide those wings. They would probably need to cease hunting activities during the interval. Hunting was hardly a healthy activity for kids after all!

Sam leaned over his laptop and sighed. What did he know about kids, really? He just hadn't dated anyone with kids, and hadn’t gleaned a whole lot from his admittedly bizarre childhood, moving from grubby motel room to grubby motel room, often with a loaded .45 tucked under his pillow at night.

First off, he needed clothing solutions. That would be easy enough for Dean, but not so much for the little angel. It wouldn't be good to have poor Cas freeze to death. They were out of groceries too – he couldn't have kids living on beer frozen pizza! What did kids eat, anyway? And what did angel kids eat? Sam decided he should probably buy a lot of vegetables. Kids needed their vegetables! Everybody knew this. And how about entertainment? Dean was content with his games for now, but that was hardly healthy. Maybe he would buy them some educational videos while he was at it, like PBS documentaries on penguins and suchlike!

At length, Sam looked up from his keyboard. His screen was stuffed with healthy, wholesome ideas for the kids.

It had gotten awfully quiet. He got up and crept down the hallways and peeked into Dean's room. 

Dean was sprawled out on his bed, on top of the covers, snoring away.

Cas had taken all the bedding off his mattress and wound it around and around into a sort of … well, Sam could only think of it as a nest. Cas was snuggled up smack in the center, curled in a ball, his wings tucked around him.

It was pretty cute.

Sam smiled and pulled some covers over Dean, grabbing the iPad out of his hands. He noticed the battery was almost dead, so he tucked it under his arm and, turning off the light, brought it along with him. He grew thoughtful as he walked down the corridor. He wasn't entirely certain about this, but Dean looked like he'd ended up maybe five or six years old. That is, around the age he'd been when their mom had died. 

That was around the age Dean had been when he'd started taking care of Sammy. But he was still just a tiny kid himself! It didn’t seem fair, somehow. 

Sam rummaged around distractedly to find the charger and hooked it up to Dean's iPad. He plugged it in.

The screen flashed. 

_“DEAR SANTA”_

Sam paused. Hadn't Dean been playing some kind of game? Curious now, he touched the screen, and the letter Dean had evidently been in the middle of writing came up.

 

_DEAR SANTA_

_HI THIS IS DEAN WINCHESTER. I HAVE A BROTHER. HE IS SAMMY. SAM IS TALL. HE IS REEL SERIUS AL THE TIME!!!_

_MY BEST FREND IS CAS AND HE IS A ANGEL. HE HAS WINGS!! THEY ARE COOL WITH FETHERS. BUT CAS DOES NOT SMILE._

_THEY NEED TO PLAY!!!_

_WIL YOU BRING THEM TOYS? I DO NOT NEED MORE TOYS. MAYBEE SOME APS FOR MY BROTHERS IPAD THO. PLEASE BRING THEM TOYS SO THEY WILL SMILE._

_LOVE!!!_

_XXXXX_

_DEAN WINCHESTER_

 

Sam looked at the letter.

Sam looked at the list of healthy and educational pursuits on his computer screen.

Sam looked back at the letter.

Sam looked at his list.

And then he deleted the entire list and started over.

 

Dean had absolutely insisted that he needed to go along on Sam’s errands, which had been agreeable to Sam. But then he had just as stubbornly insisted that they absolutely, positively could not leave the bunker without Cas. This had caused a bit of a problem, as the pint-sized seraph was now dragging along a couple of rather large, rather visible angel wings.

And then Sam had had a brilliant idea. Because he was brilliant. He ventured down into one of the bunker’s storerooms, where he found a choirboy outfit. He didn’t have any idea what the Men of Letters were doing with something like that, and figured he was better off not asking. Anyway, he cut a couple of slits in the back of the white surplice, big enough for Cas to pop his wings through, and then Sam grabbed some golden pipe cleaners, twisted them together, and plopped his new creation onto Cas’s head.

“There. Instant angel outfit!” declared Sam proudly.

Cas peered up suspiciously at the wire contraption. “This headgear does not in any way resemble a halo, Sam.”

Sam crouched down so he was at eye level with Cas. “Cas, if we’re gonna go out, we have to disguise your wings, man. So if anybody asks, this is your angel costume, and you don’t go anywhere without it. Got it?” 

Looking down at the flowing white garment, Cas nodded, albeit a bit uncertainly. 

“It looks like a dress,” Dean opined.

“It’s not a dress,” Sam insisted.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s a choirboy … thingie dealie,” Sam told him. 

“Can we get some better clothes?” Dean whined, regarding his much-rolled pantlegs with disdain. “These are totally lame!”

“First stop,” Sam assured him. And so, they waded into the breach at WalMart, hoping for some cheap kid clothes – maybe it was only for a week, but no sense in having them trail around looking like some kind of Dickensian orphans. Sam figured whatever they had popped back, they could donated the clothes to the local homeless shelter.

As he had suspected, Cas’s “angel costume” had caused a bit of a stir, but people seemed to accept the fact that he had a pipe cleaner halo with the world’s most realistic angel wings. In fact, one fellow with a scruffy beard and a fedora had pulled Sam aside to discuss how the “obviously” fake wings could be improved. He gave Sam his card, which Sam promptly tossed into a bin. 

As he was unhampered by wings, Dean tried on various outfits, and then Sam just picked up matching set of whatever fit for Cas, figuring he was more or less the same size. He also got a couple of cheap sweatshirts he could cut up so they fit over Cas’s wings. Dean had latched onto an Avengers theme for their wardrobe: he had Iron Man, and Cas got Captain America. Sam figured what the hell, Thor was pretty cool, so he got a new T shirt out of the deal as well.

Dean wriggled into his new clothes as soon as they returned to the parking lot, and Cas started to do the same. “I need to cut holes in that sweatshirt before you put it on, Cas,” Sam told him. 

“So cut them,” ordered Dean.

“I don’t have scissors,” Sam told him.

Dean rummaged around in the WalMart bag and grabbed the new pair of scissors Sam had picked up. They were in a clamshell plastic package, however. What with the kid care and all, Sam had forgotten to bring along a knife, so he struggled with them for a while, and then gave up. “We’ll need to get back to the bunker so I can get something to open this crap. Maybe I could use some dynamite!”

“Give them to me, Sam,” said Cas calmly from the back seat. Sam handed over the scissors, there was a crackling noise, and a flash of light, and Cas handed back the newly freed scissors. 

“You can open clamshell packaging?” Sam asked.

“You simply have to smite it.”

“Huh, I always wondered,” said Sam. He cut a couple of slits in Cas’s new Captain America sweatshirt, and the angel wriggled into it successfully.

“You’ll have to put the choirboy thing,” said Sam, grabbing the discarded surplice.

“Awwww!” said Dean. “That costume isn’t cool. And some girls were hanging around him. Ew!”

“With greatest respect, Sam, I dislike the angel costume,” Cas declared. “I would prefer to be dressed like _Dean_.”

Sam held his head. “Look, Cas, you understand that you can’t walk around in public with those wings.”

“I could be invisible,” Cas ventured. 

“Whoa! That would be awesome!” Dean had turned around on the bench seat and was staring at Cas, wide-eyed. “We could sneak up on people.”

“Seraphim choose invisibility to observe humanity, not to ‘sneak,’” Cas replied, holding his wings up in an offended manner.

Sam wasn’t certain about escorting an invisible kid through Christmas crowds. Then he had another brilliant idea. “Hey, Cas, what about just making your wings invisible?”

Cas opened up a wing and glared at a wing tip. “Wouldn’t that be untruthful?”

Sam tried to frame an argument. “Listen, seeing your wings would upset people. You don’t wanna wear the costume, and we don’t want them to be upset. So it would be OK, just for today. All right?”

Cas gazed up at Dean, who nodded eagerly. Cas looked at his wings, closed his eyes, and suddenly, the wings were no longer there.

“That’s cooooooool!” said Dean. “Where did they go?” Suddenly, Dean gave a little cry and fell back as Cas smacked him with an invisible wingtip.

Cas smirked. “They’re invisible!” 

“OK. No invisible wing fighting!” Sam scolded. “And everybody get your seat belts on!” The kids obeyed, and they were off.

The next stop was, on Dean’s insistence, Toys R Us. It was a mad hellscape of whining children and their freakish Yuppie parents. But Dean and Cas had evidently occupied themselves with scanning the toy store’s Sunday insert, so most of their time was spent comparing the relative firepower of various Nerf weapons. And invisible wings turned out to be the greatest thing ever, as they were very useful for slapping back crazed yuppies who attempted to run them over with overfilled shopping baskets.

In the end, Sam shrugged and just bought a small pile of Nerf weapons, once again figuring this stuff could be gifted to the local shelter after his “kids” had grown out of them. Dean pressed a licensed Hunger Games Nerf bow and arrow set on Sam, as Cas averred that this was the preferred weapon of the Cupids. 

Also, despite Dean’s many wails of protest, Sam had ventured into the dreaded Pink Aisle, where he had acquired for himself the most evil looking Barbie doll he could find in honor of their latest hunt. He surmised that this one was supposed to be an attorney – that was pretty darned evil, right? She was wearing a pink suit and had a little pink briefcase and a teeny tiny dog. Sam liked dogs, so what the hey. Dean avoided the girlie toy as if it were radioactive.

A strange thing happened when Sam was browsing the Barbie aisle however. At one point, out of the corner of his eye, he could have sworn he saw some little figures moving down the shelf. He turned, and the movement stopped. 

He shrugged. Maybe that latest hunt on top of all the fuss with Cas and Dean had put him on edge?

They had also stopped by a big chain party supply store for some seasonal decorations, though Sam had refused Dean’s insistence that he throw in a Santa suit. They added a healthy sample of Christmas ornaments to the stash in the trunk. Sam also purchased a decent-sized artificial tree. After seeing what had happened to the locals who had gone to chop down their own, he wasn’t getting anywhere near a live tree this year! Besides, live trees ended up scattering needles everywhere.

The very last stop before heading home was the grocery store, which Dean seemed even more thrilled about than the toy store. He whipped out his iPad and consulted the long list of essential Christmas treats he and Cas had evidently decided they were going to cook. Beyond the traditional turkey and trimmings, Cas had for some reason insisted on a pasta dish that required lots of canned tomatoes, and Dean was utterly insistent that they attempt to create a homemade pie, despite the abundance of ready-made samples. Sam went along with it, although he was also careful to pick up some pre-made sugar cookie dough you could just roll out. Kids liked to decorate cookies, right? 

Then at last – finally – they were on their way back home. Sam hummed along with the radio as they drove along. He eyed his small big brother, sitting next to him. Dean had voiced no protest at all to playing a Vampire Weekend CD in the Impala, which was pretty cool. In the rear view mirror Sam could see Cas snoring away in the back, clutching that plush bee toy he’d insisted on buying, his now visible wings fluffed out all along the back seat.

“Whoa!” Sam glanced down at his passenger. Dean had finally managed to extricate his Nerf gun from its insanely complicated packaging. 

“Cool, huh?” whispered Dean.

“Hey, I guess you’re really riding shotgun now,” Sam told him.

“We got a gun for Cas too! And the bow and arrow set for you, Sammy! So you can be Hawkeye!”

“I think I'm Katniss, actually.”

“Well, I guess she could be an Avenger. We’re gonna have fun playing!”

“I’m sure you will.” Sam thought it over. Actually, the bunker would be a fun place to run around shooting Nerf darts. And maybe he would try firing a couple Nerf arrows. 

“Sam?” Dean had turned himself around to peer nervously at Cas, who was still peacefully napping in back. 

“What?” Sam glanced over at Dean again. His little face had suddenly gotten serious. “What is it, Dean? Something wrong?”

Dean lowered his voice. “You think Cas likes me?” he asked in a hushed whisper.

Sam chuckled softly. “Of course he likes you Dean. He’s our friend, right?” Sam reached out and ruffed Dean’s hair. His little big brother was kind of cute.

“No, I mean, _likes me_ likes me,” Dean moped.

Sam froze. Wait, was Dean asking what Sam thought he was asking? They were just little kids now, right? “Dean, cheer up, man! Isn’t it cool that he’s your friend, and we’re gonna have a butt-kicking Christmas together.”

“I guess so.”

“Look, just relax and spend some time with him, and everything will turn out OK. All right?”

“Sure Sammy. Thanks, you’re a great brother!”

Sam grinned. Hey, this whole being a parent thing – or a parent substitute or whatever – it was cake!

 

Cas woke up in time to help Sam and Dean pile packages and bags and boxes out of the trunk and into the bunker. Actually, it was pretty cool: it turned out he could use his wings to help him hold stuff. 

And then came a dilemma: decorate the bunker, or start baking Christmas treats? Sam had figured they would want to get the tree out first thing, but he found himself outnumbered. “I have captured an information video regarding pie baking!” Cas announced, as he clicked on the television and began to run the tape of a TV show featuring one of those insufferably unctuous hosts declaring, bright-eyed “Yummy!” 

“Guys, making a pie is a little … complicated.”

“But it’s pie, Sammy!” Dean pleaded.

Sam had a ready answer. He grabbed the roll of the ready-made cookie dough. “Look, you guys, what if we just make some Christmas cookies first? Those are fun. And you get to decorate them.” He held up yet more tubes of ready-made frosting and tubes of sprinkles. This would work like a charm (a good charm, anyway), and they wouldn’t even dirty a single bowl! 

Sam was an awesome big brother. 

Dean looked dubious, but fortunately, Cas was more easily persuaded. “Do we have a rolling pin, Sam?” he asked. “This will be necessary in rolling out cookie dough. I saw this on a cooking program.”

“Of course we do!” said Sam. Actually, he had no bloody idea. He frowned at his ringing cell phone. “You guys go take a look in the kitchen while I get this call, OK?” The two boys rushed towards the pantry, and Sam cringed at a clattering sound coming from the kitchen as he picked up the call. The caller ID was flashing the number of the detective from what he and Dean had been calling the Barbie Shoes case. Sam figured he would have to put them off for a while. It ought to be easy enough to claim he was off on a holiday vacation.

“Agent Simmons?”

“Yeah, hey, Det. Jorgensen, I was just gonna call-“

“I- I think you should get down here.”

Sam paused. He and his brother had dealt with a lot of cops over the years, and it wasn’t often that a law enforcement contact would let their emotions come out like that. Jorgensen sounded genuinely upset. 

There was a huge crash from the kitchen. Sam hit the mute button. “You two, keep it down!” he shouted.

“Sorry, Sammy!” came Dean’s voice, but then the little jerk giggled. Sam rolled his eyes and went back to the phone call.

“Am I interruptin’?” Jorgensen asked.

“No. Just … you know, some family stuff.”

“I am mighty sorry to be calling during your holiday like this, but I think you need to see this crime scene.”

“Are you out in the national forest?” Sam asked.

“No. No we’re not.”

Sam bit his lip. He spent some time on the phone, and then wrote down an address. “Hey! Dean! Cas!”

“We got a rolling pin, Sammy!” Dean told him triumphantly, waving the implement. Sam looked over their shoulders into the kitchen, where there were now several pots and pans lying on the floor. 

“You guys, I got a call about that hunt Dean and I were on.”

“A hunt! Should we got talk to ‘em, Sammy?” asked Dean, and Sam suddenly realized his pint-sized brother evidently wanted to wriggle into his adult-sized FBI suit and play along. 

“Um, I think it’s better you stay with Cas, don’t you?”

“Oh, that’s right!” said Dean, putting an arm over Cas’s shoulder. Cas actually braved a small smile at this.

“Maybe you guys should just get some decorations up while I’m gone?” Sam ventured.

“We can bake cookies, Sam! It will be a sinch!” Dean looked at his friend. “Can’t we, Cas?”

“Sam, I will watch over Dean as he bakes,” Cas vowed, his wings arched up proudly.

Sam was telling himself he could make this quick. “You know what to do, Cas? You heat up the oven? And make sure the cookies don’t burn?”

“I’ve watched numerous cooking programs on your television, Sam. I believe I have grasped the fundamentals.”

Sam crouched down to look at the both of them in the eye. “And you’ll wear oven mitts? I don’t want you getting burned!” Or burning the bunker down, he silently added. Was this a good idea? Cas was still an adult. Well, sort of. He thought about Officer Jorgensen's shaky voice and made a decision. “I'm leaving you a cell phone. You call me immediately if you have any problems at all! I'll drop everything and come back. Understand?”

They both nodded solemnly. 

“I won't stay long, OK?”

More nods.

Sam nodded back, and then he was out the door.

 

“And the week before Christmas,” sighed Officer Jorgensen. 

Sam stood in the living room, gazing at the blood-spattered Christmas tree. The house was swarming with cops, taking crime scene photos and collecting evidence. 

And there was a weird smell permeating everything.

“Does it smell like … fish in here to you?” Sam asked.

The detective nodded. 

“How many victims?” Sam asked, as it seemed there was blood splattered everywhere.

“Just the father. The mom and daughter got out. We have them outside if you’d like an interview. Not a good thing to look at!” It was truly gruesome. And it was also exactly the M.O. they'd seen in the forest. 

Sam nodded towards the Christmas tree. “That's a live tree. From the state park, you think?”

Jorgensen nodded. “It may be. But why would anyone chase them all the way back here? And how? It makes no sense.”

Sam nodded. 

“I thought we'd stopped this! We've started shooing people away from the forest. But now the guy is following them home?”

“He's obviously deranged,” Sam muttered. Or a vengeful forest spirit. What was that name Cas had mentioned? “How many people do you think have trees from that patch of woods?”

“No telling! Maybe five, maybe fifty!”

This was definitely not good.

“Can I talk to the wife?” asked Sam. 

“Don’t think you’ll get much out of her, but I’ll take you to her,” said Jorgensen. “Confidentially, this isn’t the first time we’ve been to this address,” he whispered as they walked back out the door. Sam relaxed. The blood was terrible, but the fish smell, too, was oppressive.

“Let me guess: domestic violence?” asked Sam.

“She would never press charges. But it was clear something was going on.”

Jorgensen led Sam to where a woman sat, shivering, wrapped up in a paramedic's blanket in the back of an ambulance. “We need to take this one in,” one of the paramedics told Jorgensen. “Pretty clear she’s in shock.”

Sam nodded and went to stand by the dark-haired woman. “Hey,” he said softly. “I’m Agent Simmons, FBI.”

She glanced up at him.

She had one black eye.

And then she went back to staring into space.

“The dollies helped!” sang a little girl.

Sam crouched down to address the small, dark-haired girl who had just come running up. She looked like a small copy of the wife. This must be the daughter. And, like the woman, she was wrapped up in a paramedic’s blanket. “Dollies?” This sounded hauntingly familiar.

“Daddy was madded again. He spilled a jar on the floor. And sometimes the dollies would come when he did that. And this time they held my hand, and I got my Mommy, and they said to go outside!”

“The dollies did?”

“Yeah, the dollies did. They were nice. And they wear funny hats!”

“Uh-huh,” said Sam. “Where are the dollies now?”

“They had to leave. Is Daddy still madded?”

“Uh, no, I don’t think so.”

“Good, ‘cause I got scared! But the dollies said we'd be OK. Right, Mommy?”

The mother didn't answer.

“All right, Midge,” said Jorgensen, who had come back up. “We're taking you to the hospital to be checked out. We've called your sister. Would you like to go visit your aunt?” he asked the girl, as Midge wasn't talking.

“Yeah, Aunt Francie!” she said. 

Sam and Jorgensen watched the ambulance take off. One of the CSI men came up to Jorgensen and handed him off a ziploc bag. The detective then pressed it onto Sam. 

“Cutting from that tree,” he told Sam. “I- I hope you can help us, Detective Simmons.”

Sam held the cutting up to the light, and nodded.

 

Sam was thoughtful on the drive back to the bunker. He had decided to stop hunting until Dean recovered from the spell, but if this creature wasn't stopped, there would be more murders. Not that he thought the world was worse off without one more abusive husband! But he needed to at least conduct some more research. Maybe that would help solve the case? He was sure the kids wouldn't mind.

He was still lost in thought as he drifted in the door, and was greeted by some very pleasant smells as he walked downstairs. He paused, and actually smiled. He immediately proceeded towards the kitchen. There was the aroma of vanilla like cookies. But there was another smell – like...

Sam froze in his tracks.

Pie?

The kitchen looked like the aftermath of a particularly vengeful poltergeist. Every pot, every pan, every dish, every bowl, every utensil, every fork and spoon and knife, every everything you could think of and more – it was out, and it was covered in god knows what.

“Sammy!” said Dean. The boy’s head poked up over the counter and, after shaking off some flour in his hair, he rushed to embrace Sam in one of the gooiest hugs of his recent memory.

“Uh. Dean? You were gonna make … cookies?”

“We did! And that went real good! So we decided to make you some pie!” He turned his head, raising more flour dust, and bellowed, “Hey, Cas!”

The angel appeared unto them. And there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth, as Cas, like Dean, was covered from head to toe in flour and butter and eggs and whatever else. 

He set down the basket of apples he was carrying and fluffed out his wings. Which were actually so mucked up they now appeared a sort of off-white instead of black.

“Holy crap, you guys,” was all Sam could muster. “This.... This kitchen.”

“It's awesome! Cas was gonna cut up some more apples for another pie!” Dean announced, just as Cas picked up the largest, sharpest, shiniest knife in the kitchen and twirled it around. How the hell had it stayed clean, when there was a coat of muck over everything else?

“I'm not sure that's a good idea, Cas,” Sam pleaded, holding up a hand. 

“Why not, Sammy?” asked Dean as Cas tossed one of the apples up into the air. Sam cringed as the knife flashed in Cas’s little hand, and then tiny pieces of perfectly sliced apple rained down on the counter.

“Uh, I think you're supposed to use a cutting board?” said Sam, tentatively picking up one of the apple slices.

“Oh, is _that_ what that's for?” asked Dean, holding up a wooden cutting board: it was studded with knives. 

“I told you, Dean,” said Cas, who rolled his eyes.

“Aw, screw those cooking shows, Cas,” said Dean. “I like how you do it!”

“Watch the language,” Sam scolded, and then he reminded himself that Dean was an adult, although he was now sort of a kid. Ugh!

“We made you a cookie, did you see?” Dean announced. He held up a plate. There were several creations, all of which appeared to have about six times more frosting and sprinkles than cookie.

Right smack in the middle, there was a red and green and blue and purple cookie that somewhat resembled Rudolph. On top of layers of frosting, someone had piped, “MOOS.” 

“You didn't spell it correctly,” Cas fussed.

“There wasn't enough room for the last letter!” Dean told him.

“And I believe that mold was supposed to depict a reindeer.”

“Close enough.”

Sam had broken into the world's biggest smile. “Guys, thanks.”

“That's your cookie, Sam!” said Dean, who was licking frosting from the plate, and getting about half of it all over his face.

“I have the first pie in the oven, Sam,” Cas reported. Sam replaced the moose cookie onto the plate, and bent down to take a look at the oven. There was indeed a somewhat clumsy looking pie inside. 

“OK, guys, how about this? We'll get that first pie out of the oven-”

“And eat it with ice cream?” Dean asked.

“Um, we have to let it cool. So what about we get the kitchen cleaned up? And you guys.... And then we'll have a piece with ice cream?”

 

Dish soap worked.

Sam congratulated himself for small victories. He didn't want to damage Cas's wings, but he also needed to get the gunk off of them. “Is this … marshmallow?” he asked at one point.

“Yeah!” said Dean, who, to his credit, had sat down to take a wing himself. 

“We thought to add them to the sweet potatoes,” said Cas.

As it turned out, their ambition had actually gone far beyond the preparation of desserts, and the two children had actually assembled a rather astonishing array of side dishes while Sam was out. And they hadn't done a bad job, Sam had to admit, although he'd now spent a good twenty minutes hunched over Cas's flight feathers, trying to get them back to some semblance of their usual shiny black.

“Does this seem OK, Cas?” Sam asked. The wing whipped out of his hands and flexed itself in Cas's face. 

“Yes, Sam. Thank you. That is an excellent job of preening!”

“What about me, Cas?” Dean asked, smushing his wing before Cas as well. 

“Careful, Dean!”

Cas nodded solemnly. “You have done a splendid job as well, Dean. Thank you!”

Sam had to pause, because just then, Dean and Cas did their staring thing. Even though they were both currently little bitty kids and Cas was standing in his Captain American underpants that Dean had insisted on buying for him, with two dripping wet wings. There they went, off in their own little world.

Sam grinned and did something he'd always wanted to do: he reached over, grabbed two heads of the offending parties, and swiveled them around to face him. “Yo! We need to get Cas's wings dry. Dean, can you find us a blow dryer? We can't leave him sopping wet like this! And I've got something I need to research.”

Dean nodded eagerly. Cas ruffled his wings to get a some of the water off (and right back onto Sam, but oh well) and then Sam gently toweled off the wings as best he could. Then the kids scrambled into some clean clothes, and Dean started the work of fluffing up Cas's wings with a blow dryer while Sam hit his laptop once again to look for answers about this Zlebog character. He took out the cutting of the Christmas tree the detective had given him, but from all evidence, it was just a pine tree, with absolutely nothing special about it.

Then he looked up Zlebog. As he had done the first time, he quickly concluded that this was futile. Other than locating one picture of the god – he seemed to be a Pan-like half goat – Sam gave up and, after checking that the kids weren't involved in much property destruction, went instead to consult the MoL archives. 

He didn't have much luck in the archives either. “I just wanna know how to kill you,” he muttered at one point as he was sitting cross-legged on the floor of a store room with books and scrolls piled on the floor around him.

He sighed.

And then he ducked.

Still sitting on the floor he whirled around to see it: a Nerf dart.

And then came the pitter patter of running feet: Cas bounded into the room, carrying not one but two different Nerf weapons. He hung by the door, peeking out, and then spotted Sam.

He opened his mouth, but Sam held a finger to his lips. Cas got the signal, and shut up. Sam pointed and, Cas, getting the gist, smiled conspiratorially and slid the nerf bow and arrow set over to Sam. 

Sam crawled towards the other side of the door. There was the sound of running footsteps. “I got you Cas! Cas?” came Dean's voice.

Cas and Sam exchanged a glance. Cas extended a wing, and waved a dark wingtip out the door.

There was a fusillade of Nerf Darts, and then Dean was in the room, pointing his weapon at Cas. “Surrender!”

Sam let forth with a Nerf arrow. Ha, right in the butt! Surprised, Dean spun around, and Cas fired as well.

Dean Winchester went down, screaming with laughter, to a hail of Nerf.

Sam walked over. “Are you dead?” he laughed, kicking his brother's foot. He crouched down next to Dean.

“No fair!” Dean hollered. He leapt to his feet, and then tackled Sam to the ground. The both fell over this time, laughing and shouting and half-heartedly wrestling. Cas crept towards them, and Sam grabbed an arm and Dean grabbed a leg, and then he was down on top of the pile too.

After noogies had been distributed, Sam sat up, laughing. Dean was laughing as well.

And Cas – Sam had never seen such a big grin brighten the angel's face.

“What's the matter, Sam?” Dean was asking. He pulled over one of the many books Sam had scattered about and started flipping through it. “What are you readin’?” Cas scooted over and peeked over Dean’s shoulder. 

“I'm trying to find information on the guy Cas mentioned, Zlebog,” Sam explained. He pulled over another book and opened it to a page with a big picture of the half-goat deity.

“Ew!” said Dean.

“That is a terribly romanticized picture,” Cas sniffed at the florid rendering of a monstrous, half goat individual, pictured with barred fangs and flared horns. 

“But I can't find any information!” Sam told them with a sigh. “I need to find out how to neutralize him. Is it salt? Or silver? A pointed stick? These guys always have a weakness!”

“Why don't you inquire of the tomtes?” said Cas.

Sam had to think about that for a while. “Wait, you mean the gnomes?” asked Sam. Cas nodded. “Uh, aren’t they the ones who’ve been going around murdering people?”

Cas stood tall, his little wings held up high. “Tomtes are peaceful. Well, except when they’re upset,” he added, as his wings drooped.

“Look,” said Sam. “I don't wanna get in any deeper than we already are right now. I need a break, I think.”

Dean and Cas looked at one another. “You could be Hawkeye!”

Sam stared down at his books. And then he glanced at two sets of wide, expectant eyes.

“All right. But only for a few minutes. I gotta get back to my research!”

 

“I'm bored, Sammy!”

Sam had lasted a good while playing Avengers, and now the bunker was littered with Nerf darts and Nerf arrows. But now he had sprawled on the couch for a breather, and Dean wriggled up and sat himself down approximately on Sam's stomach. “Oof!”

The Nerf bow and arrow was fun. He wondered idly about getting a crossbow, like that cool guy on TV Dean liked. What was his name?

“Sammy!”

“How about we get out some of those decorations we bought?” Sam prodded. Anything to get Dean off his tummy.

“Cool!” said Dean. “C'mon, Cas!” The two kids tore off.

“Ugh.” Although what he really wanted to do now was kick back with a cold one. 

Sam sat up.

He was certain he had seen something out of the corner of his eye: tiny figures, running. But there was nothing there now.

Eventually, Sam gave up and went after Dean and Cas. He found them in the main room, tearing into the box containing the artificial Christmas tree he'd picked up. “What are you guys doing?”

“Puttin' together the tree, Sam!” said Dean, who was snapping a plastic branch into a plastic trunk.

“Put that down, Dean! That’s not the way! You need to follow the instructions.”

“Aw, Sammy!”

But Sam stood firm, and soon they had the entire box unpacked and all the parts carefully sorted out in terms of size and shape. The instructions were aligned neatly beside them, all folded out with the sheets in order. 

“All right, Sammy, can we get started yet?” Dean pleaded.

“Just a minute, let me read through these!” said Sam. He carefully compared the instructions (which seemed to have been translated from another language into clumsy English) to the array of parts spread out all over the floor. Oddly enough, there seemed to be no correspondence between them. “Uh, is this a trunk? Or is that a trunk?”

“What language is this?” asked Cas, who was squatting down beside Sam, peering at the instructions.

Sam was occupied with trying to get two branches apart that he'd just stuck together. It looked nothing like the diagram. Cas held a hand out, and Sam passed it over. The little angel pulled the branches apart with a swift, efficient pop. 

“You're messin' it up, Sammy,” Dean complained.

“Am not!” Sam protested. But after twenty more minutes of looking for tab A to stick into slot B, it was a relief when his phone rang. “Just a minute,” he said.

“Officer Simmons, we've got another weird one!” It was Jorgensen's voice. 

“Another murder?” Sam asked.

“No, but listen to this. I'm at Old Lady Petersen's house, and someone smashed all her garden gnomes.”

“What?” Sam looked over, waving his hands as Dean and Cas started jamming Christmas tree pieces together. “Garden gnomes?”

“Woke her up! She looked out to the yard, and claimed it was a monster goat.”

“A goat?”

“A monster goat!”

“A monster goat.”

“Anyways, not much to see here but busted up china. But I thought it was worth callin' you because of where she got her tree.”

Sam bit his lip. “Let me guess: from the state forest?”

“Yep. A grandkid chopped it down for her.”

Sam shook his head. Gnomes? “Anything else?”

“No. Anything to report on your end.”

“Sorry, no, but I'll let you know as soon as I have something.”

Sam hung up, and turned around to see a Christmas tree standing there. “Whoa!”

“You suck, Sammy!” laughed Dean.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Cas,” he said.

“What is it, Sam?” asked the angel.

“The gnomes. The tomtes! How would I call them?”

“The traditional offering is porridge and butter,” said Cas.

“They don't want cookies instead?” Dean proposed. “What about pie? We could make another one, couldn’t we, Cas?”

“I could slice some more apples!” Cas immediately volunteered. “Um, but they like porridge.”

Sam checked his watch. It was later than he had figured. “Look, you guys. It’s getting late. Why don’t we make the tomtes an offering, and then you guys can get to bed.”

“But I’m not sleepy!” Dean protested. “And now we gotta decorate the tree!”

“We can tackle that tomorrow.” Sam managed to wrangle the short people into the kitchen, where they whipped up a bowl of instant oatmeal without creating too much of a disaster zone. Dean insisted they had to at least decorate the cereal with some little candy sprinkles. He managed to get a few sprinkles actually on the oatmeal, while the rest of the bottle mysteriously transported itself to coat Cas’s wings. 

“Am I gonna need to remove some of the warding on the bunker, Cas?” Sam had asked at one point.

“Why, Sam?”

Cas looked grave. But then again, he always looked grave. “Uh, so the tomtes can get in and eat their cereal?”

“They’re already here, Sam,” the angel told him.

“What?” Sam looked around.

“Tomtes inhabit every dwelling.” Cas rattled his wings, causing some candy sprinkles to waft out. 

There was really no answer to that one. “Well, all right then. I’ll keep watch on the Quaker oats, and you guys get teeth brushed – uh, and wings brushed I guess – and get ready for bed.”

After a bit of grumbling (mostly from Dean) Sam got Dean and Cas at least into Dean’s bedroom, where Dean immediately cracked out Subway Surfer. This time Cas grabbed the tablet away from Dean, and the two boys sat together at the foot of Dean’s bed, with one of Cas’s wings wrapped around Dean’s shoulder. 

Well, that looked cosy. 

Sam grabbed his trusty laptop, and then rummaged around for a variety of weaponry, since he had no idea in hell how to fend off tomtes (there was really not much more information on them than Zlebog). When he finished, he had a firearms loaded with silver bullets and salt rounds, along with some salt, a silver blade, Ruby’s knife, an angel blade, and several pointed sticks, and a literal cardboard box full of other implements.

And then…. Well, it had been a long day shopping, and child care was not exactly Sam’s forte, so it was probably not a big surprise to anyone but Sam that he sort of began nodding off.

 

“Hey! They added sprinkles.”

“That’s pretty cool, dude! And they’re all colors.”

Sam bolted awake at the sound of the high-pitched, quavery voices coming from the kitchen table. He blinked over at the table, where two tiny men in pointed red hats were dipping normal-sized teaspoons into the bowl of oatmeal.

“Instant though,” said the first tomte.

“Well, they probably don’t know how to cook real oats.”

“Stop right there!” said Sam, pointing a revolver in the general direction of the tiny interlopers.

“Dude!” protested the first tomte, who didn’t interrupt his porridge-eating. “Unarmed.”

“Paranoid, much?” sighed the second.

“Oh my god, Cas!” hollered Dean, who had stumbled into the room.

“Dean, stay out of here!” Sam warned.

“Cas, you gotta come look!” Dean yelled, completely ignoring his frantic brother.

Cas showed up just then, rubbing his eyes and dragging his wings. “What?”

“Ooooo!” said the tomtes, who immediately stopped noshing cereal and pitter-pattered over to the edge of the table, where they stood marveling over Cas. “You’ve got an angel?” “A real one?” “Dude, can you flap your wings?” “This is epic!” “Dudes, check it out!”

“Dean! Cas! Be careful!” Sam pleaded. He rose from the couch, keeping the gun trained on the tomtes. Except now there were more of them: there were several on the floor, gathered around a sleepy Cas.

“They’ve got an angel!” said one of the floor tomtes.

“And they put sprinkles on the Quaker, dudes!” called down the first tomte from the table.

“Hey, you guys liked the sprinkles?” asked Dean.

“Yeah, we dig sprinkles,” said the second tomte, who was licking his teaspoon.

“Hey, his wings have sprinkles too!” said one of the floor tomtes, as Cas gave his wings a little flap and some more candies worked their way loose and rained down on the little gnomes. “Ooo!”

“We should have cleaned those wings better before you went to bed,” Sam admitted. He was lowering his weapon, because, really, he had no idea who and what he was going to shoot. For his part, Cas had crouched down and lifted up a couple of the floor tomtes so they could have better access to his wings. The wore red, peaked hats, little grey coats, and red boots and leggings. 

Dean grabbed a plate of cookies and place them down on the table. “We added sprinkles to these too!”

“Do you have milk?” asked a table tomte. “We like to dunk!”

“So why have you summoned us with porridge?” the first tomte inquired of Sam.

“And sprinkles!” added the second.

“So why have you summoned us with porridge and sprinkles?”

Sam holstered his weapon. “We were wondering if you had any information about Zlebog?”

As soon as the name left Sam’s lips, a noise arose from the tomtes.

“Oooo!”

“What a douche!”

“He’s a douchey douche!”

“The douchiest douche in Douche-sylvania!”

Dean set a glass of milk down on the table, and now a whole group of tomtes crowded around and fed the cookies into a kind of assembly line. A couple of them broke off a piece of cookie, and then they handed along the piece to where a one tomte was standing on the shoulders of another by the glass of milk. He would dunk the cookie, and another tomte would then eat up in one mighty (for them) bite. 

“So you guys know about Zlebog?” Sam asked, trying to concentrate. He was still not entirely certain whether this was all a dream. “He’s been forcing you guys to kill?”

“No no no no!” insisted the first tomte. “We don’t kill!”

“Well, except sometimes,” noted the second tomte, who had a mouth full of cookie.

“That’s right, except sometimes.”

“When we’re really pissed off.”

“Dude, we deliver presents and protect people,” said the first tomte.

“Until Zlebog showed up!”

“So, he just showed up recently?” Sam asked.

“Yep. Word on the street is he smuggled himself over in a jar of pickled herring.”

Sam paused. That fishy smell! “So what do we do about him?”

“Well, we usually speak about him in very harsh terms!”

“He’s a douche.”

“No, I mean, what do we do about _killing_ him?” Sam asked.

“Ooo, who is this?” said the first tomte. A group of the gnomes was dragging out a pink box.

“Hubba hubba!”

“Boom chikka wow!”

“Ugh, that’s Sammy’s Barbie doll,” Dean reported.

“Look, guys,” Sam pleaded, “what do we do about Zlebog?”

“If we knew, do you think we'd live in terror of that jerk?” huffed the first tomte. 

“There should be a weapon!” said Sam. “Something.”

“Well, hope you figure it out, since he's on his way.”

Sam paused, and suddenly the bottom dropped out of his stomach. “What?”

“You brought the tree in, right?”

Sam whirled over to the counter. The sprig of the Christmas tree that Jorgensen had pressed on him. His mind raced. He could take it and burn it. Then he looked down at the floor. 

A little trail of pine needles.

Cas ruffled his wings, creating a little puff of dust and colorful sprinkles. And pine needles.

“I'll never get them all out!” Sam pleaded. “The kids! There's needles everywhere.”

“We can't do anything,” said the first tomte, shaking his head. “His magic is too strong.”

“We could take the kids,” the second mentioned.

“No!” barked Dean. “We're not leaving Sammy!”

Sam bit his lip. He crouched down at the table, so he was at eye level with the tomte. “You can keep Sam and Dean safe?”

The tomte looked at the other tomtes, who nodded. “Yeah, we're good with kids. And livestock! I mean, they're not real kids, but we can overlook that.”

“Can we have the chick in trade?” the second tomte asked, pointing to the Barbie doll.

“Sure, sure, take her.” Sam turned and grabbed Cas by the shoulders.

“Sam-” Cas started.

“Cas, take care of Dean!” Sam ordered. Cas quietly nodded. “I'll deal with Zlebog. And if I don't, you wait until Dean grows up again, and then you guys go, and you kick his butt. You understand?”

Cas's wings were arched out. He nodded solemnly.

“Go,” Sam told the tomtes. “Take the kids.”

“Sammy!” Dean shouted.

There was a rustle, and then, with a waft of air, nothing was left with rustling dust and pine needles and colorful sprinkles.

Sam was alone. Alone with a half full bowl of porridge and an empty plate of Christmas cookies.

“All right,” he said. “Weapons!”

 

Forty-five minutes later, Sam had raided the bunker for anything that could conceivably be used as a weapon, and he had furthermore painted every anti-god sigil he could find around the room.

The trouble with the enterprise was that pagan gods were such a mixed lot. Some of them you could stab with the pointed stick, but others were impervious. And what wounded one would energize another.

He tried to reason through what would compromise a forest god. The wooden stakes just didn't seem likely, since the dude was living in a forest, so he made sure to get out all the silver knives. He read up on the god, Pan, since it seemed like this dude was similar. Pan was evidently dead, but there didn't seem to be a mention of how it had happened. Something about the transition from a polytheistic matriarchy into Christianity. Sam shrugged and got out the crosses and some holy water.

And then, finally, he sat down and waited. 

He jolted as something exploded.

He whirled around, turning towards the door, which had just been blasted off the hinges.

There was something in the doorway, something large and dark.

Zlebog.

The horned god strode into the bunker, right past the salt lines and blood sigils and every kind of ward. A shrill wind blew with him. It cut right through Sam, standing there with a shotgun in his hands, and chilled him to his marrow. He fired salt rounds, which didn't even make a mark, and then grabbed the handgun and started firing silver bullets.

They bounced off the tough hide.

The Zlebog advanced. It moved like a shadow, darkening everything nearby. It had two horns like thick tree trunks. It strode, sure-footed on two muscular, thick-furred legs. Cas had been right about one thing, the picture in the book was inaccurate: this thing was ten times as terrifying. 

“Plan B,” said Sam, which was “run like hell.” He rushed down the corridor, and the beast followed him. Sam ducked off to the side and backtracked, hoping the beast wouldn't catch wise. He stood at a threshold. He could hear it snarling and stomping as it approached, and he realized, to his dismay, that the damned thing still stunk of pickled herring. 

Brimstone and pickled herring.

This would be a really dumb way to die – Dean would never let him live it down!

With a chill blast of wind, the monster strode past where Sam was hiding, the floors and walls picking up an icy coating wherever he trod.

As soon as it passed, Sam leapt into the hallway and stabbed the beast in the back with an angel blade.

The monster roared, whirled around, and took a swat at Sam. Sam heedlessly leapt closer and gave it another stab in the chest with Ruby's knife. 

The monster plucked the knife out of its chest and flung it across the room. 

And then it charged.

“Plan C!” Sam muttered as he scrambled out of the way. There actually wasn't a Plan C, but it made him feel better. He hustled down the corridors, slipping and sliding on the icy floors, Zlebog quite literally storming after him. Sam slipped and slid on the ice, scrambled to his feet and, wishing he had thought to dig out a pair of ice skates, rushed down the corridor, zig-zagging around a couple of corners, and then skidding again.

He felt himself suddenly yanked into a storeroom. He sat up, only to see his brother crouching over him, signaling him for quiet. “Dean!” Sam mouthed, but Dean only pointed towards where Cas was kneeling by the other side of the doorway, peeking out. He gave thumbs up, and Dean scampered across the room, to grab something off a very high ledge. 

Sam suddenly realized that why this room seemed familiar: that was where he had stashed the amulet. “Careful with that!” whispered a familiar high, quavery voice. Sam realized that the tomtes were running around up on the shelf. They were carrying tongs, and the box that had contained the amulet was lying open.

“Dean, careful!” he whispered. But instead, Dean handed him the licensed Hunger Games bow and arrow set.

And hanging from the arrow....

Dean mimed firing the bow and arrow. Sam got the gist and nodded.

Cas was still peeking around the door. He stuck a wingtip out, and then pulled it back. Out in the corridor, Sam could hear Zlebog snort and start to thunder towards them. 

Sam stood back, holding still, the kid-sized bow and arrow clutched in his hands.

Dean and Cas nodded at each other, and then jumped up just as the Zlebog passed the doorway, firing off their automatic Nerf weapons at his head. It was ineffectual, of course, the creature paused, momentarily distracted.

Sam aimed carefully. He loosed the amulet arrow.

The arrow flew true, bouncing off Zlebog's face, the amulet loop actually hooking around one of his great horns.

Zlebog roared. The icy wind whipped around. Sam grabbed the kids and crouched down, hugging them close.

There was a flicker of power, like static electricity.

And then, finally, silence.

Sam opened his eyes. In the place of the great wailing monster, a tiny, black, and very confused-looking baby goat was bouncy-bouncing around the room.

The goat abruptly halted. It bleated pathetically.

“Cute!” squealed Dean, who ran out to pet it.

“Not so fast!” yelled Sam, yanking his brother back. The thing looked harmless, but it still had the cursed amulet dangling from one stubby horn. Sam wasn't risking two touches for his brother – it might have banished him back to the womb!

The little tomtes had already climbed down from the high shelf and surrounded Zlebog. They threw a leash around his neck. 

“Uh, I guess that's not a child, exactly,” Sam told him.

“Kids and livestock, we can handle it!” announced the first tomte. 

“You know the curse only lasts seven days?” Sam told them. “Um, or weeks or months-”

“ _Days_ ,” said the first tomte. “Don't you know your ancient Sumerian curses?”

“Eh,” said the second tomte, who was now holding the baby Zlebog goat's leash.

“Anyway, you have defeated the Zlebog, so you are now most favored of the tomtes!” the first tomte announced, bowing formally.

“Well, thanks,” said Sam, putting an arm around Dean and Cas.

“We owe you many presents, and you don't even have to be good!”

“Well, you should be kind of good,” the second tomte hedged. 

“What are you going to do with Zlebog?” Cas asked.

“It's back to the herring jar for you!” laughed the first tomte.

The goat did an annoyed goat sound. 

And then Sam was alone with Cas and Dean.

Sam looked around. “I guess we need to clean up here, huh?”

“And then pie!” announced Dean.

 

Sam was beat. Parenthood was definitely not for the weak. 

He sat on an easy chair, clicking around to different channels, while Cas, seated nearby on the couch, quietly played Subway Surfer on an iPad.

“Look at what I found!” said Dean, running into the room.

Sam looked up at Dean. For some reason, his dopey brother was now triumphantly waving a little clump of leaves. 

“Oh, that's the mistletoe,” said Sam. “Yeah, there's this one myth where it was used to kill a pagan god.” He had brought it out as part of the arsenal against Zlebog and forgot about it. He wondered why Dean was so excited about finding it.

And then Dean hopped up on the couch and scooted over to sit by Cas, and Sam stopped wondering. He pretended to be buried in his laptop. “Well, that’s nice, Dean,” he muttered.

Dean held the sprig up over Cas, who stared at it with wide blue eyes.

“You know what _mistletoe_ means, right, Cas?” Dean asked.

Cas’s eyes shifted down from the sprig to lock into Dean’s.

Not letting his eyes leave Cas's, Dean smiled and leaned forward, just a few inches. Sam, hiding behind his laptop, grinned. Even at five years old, Dean had got game.

As Cas’s eyes went wide, Dean softly pressed his lips to the angel’s.

Sam wished he had his cell phone nearby to capture a photo. He could use it as blackmail to Dean forever!

Suddenly, there was a crackle of electricity. No – not a metaphorical one, a real one. Sam’s hair stood on end, and he leapt up.

Sitting in the middle of the couch were full-grown adult Dean and full-grown adult Cas. The were sitting practically on top of one another, and were partially naked to boot, as they had suddenly outgrown the kiddie clothes.

And, oddly enough, Cas still had his dark wings, although now he was adult-sized they were much, much larger.

“Uhhhh!” said Dean.

“Dean!” said Sam, jumping up and running over to them. “Cas! Welcome back!”

Dena and Cas were still in mid-eyelock. Sam gave his brother a smack on the shoulder. “Dean! Hey, man. What's up? Do you remember anything?”

Dean seemed to snap out of it, somewhat. “Oh, man. The amulet, right?”

“The amulet,” said Cas, who was still staring at Dean.

“You’ve been kids for the last week,” said Sam. “Both of you!”

Dean pulled away from Cas, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, that’s right. I remember. Man. Weird.” He stood. “And, hey, look at you!” he said to Cas.

Cas, too, got to his feet. He arched his broad, dark wings. They were pretty fantastic, actually. “My wings are usually only manifest on the astral plane,” he explained yet again. He flapped them out, knocking over a couple of throw pillows as he did. “But I think I ought to be able to banish them now. I will need to concentrate.”

“Hey, look at us! We should get some damned clothes on first!” said Dean suddenly. “Cas, come on!” he urged, grabbing the angel’s hand and yanking him out of the room. 

“Is this awkward Dean?”

“Yep, it’s pretty awkward!” babbled Dean, pulling Cas along. “Let’s go get some clothes so Sam doesn’t have to see our butts hanging out.”

Sam chuckled as his brother disappeared, dragging a befuddled and still very winged Cas along behind. After all that had happened, it had been a very good week, after all! 

He pulled his laptop out again, thinking to order a pizza in celebration. Then maybe they could hang out and watch a video or something like that. And Dean would probably want beer now that he was safely back to drinking age. Though this time there was to be no playing with cursed amulets!

Sam opened up a tab for the local pizza joint, and then got distracted browsing Netflix's latest offerings. Eventually he flipped back to the pizza tab, wondering if Cas liked pizza with everything the way Dean took it? “Hey,” he yelled, “what did you guys want on your pizza?” 

Hearing no answer, he decided to grab the laptop and meander over to Dean's room to see what the hell was taking them this long. “Hey, guys! Pizza toppings!” he hollered. He noticed Dean’s door was ajar, but he didn’t hear them in there.

He approached the door and peeked inside. “Hey-“ But his next words died in his throat.

There was something on top of Dean’s bed. 

It had four arms, four legs, and two broad, dark wings.

And then Sam realized it was not one creature, but two: one was his brother, sprawled across the bed, his legs jerked up very, very high.

The other was an angel, dark wings arched up and full, bent over Dean, where he was….

Well.

Well, then.

Sam lurched into reverse, retraced his steps back to the main room, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and poured out a very, very large glass of the same, and sat down, staring into space, waiting for the image that was now forever burned into his retinas to fade somewhat.

At some point thereafter, Cas and Dean finally emerged from Dean’s room. 

“Cas figured out how to get his wings put away!” Dean announced. 

Sam looked up. Cas had, in fact, banished the wings. He was now dressed more casually than usual, in jeans and one of Dean’s band T shirts, with the familiar trench coat wrapped over them.

“That's nice,” said Sam.

“Um,” Cas told Dean. “Now that I have secured some angel feathers, I should go … _report._ ”

“Yeah, um, I suppose,” said Dean, scratching his neck. “Yeah, go _report.”_

“It is very good news, as the amulet evidently restored my feathers to their original state. We may now be able to fly once again!” Cas smiled and started up the stairs that led out of the bunker.

“Oh, and, uh, happy Christmas!” said Dean.

“Is it Christmas?” asked Cas.

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Dammit, I completely forgot. We can't order out for pizza after all.”

“We were gonna cook dinner, remember, Sammy?” asked Dean with a grin, slinging an arm over Sam's shoulders. “We went and got all those groceries!”

Sam nodded. And then he bolted up the stairs, chasing after Cas. He found him in front of the bunker, standing by his car.

“Cas?”

“Yes, Sam?” said the angel.

“If you're not back for Christmas dinner tonight, I will find you and kick your angel ass from here to Perdition.”

Cas stared at him for a long moment, and then vowed, “I will be back, Sam.” And then he was in the car, driving away, and Dean was standing at Sam’s side, nodding.

“You,” said Sam, pointing to his brother, “are baking me a damn pie.”

“Sure, Sammy! Uh, I'm not sure I know how....”

“Figure. It. Out!” said Sam, marching back into the bunker. “Call the angel if you have to.”

“Oh, good idea,” said Dean, immediately taking out his cell phone and hitting the speed dial, even though he had just seen Cas thirty seconds ago. “Cas!” he shouted happily into the phone.

 

As it turned out, Dean needed extensive advice from Cas about nearly every aspect of his day. In the end, after a lot of dopey smiles directed at the cell phone when Dean thought Sam probably wasn't looking, a pie was baked, and he had prepared enough Christmas dinner to feed a small army. Cas returned bearing more goodies, like bottles of liquor and boxes of candy, and a ridiculous necklace of lights that lit up, and a dumb plush reindeer horns hat that they made Sam wear. Sam had no idea how these items had been secured on Christmas day, and didn't care to ask.

They all sat down to a great dinner, Dean and Cas awkwardly holding hands under the table and smiling those dumb smiles.

And then there was a football game, of course. There was popcorn and beer, and Sam zonked out on the couch, because, dammit, having kids will wear you out.

He was dozing when he felt a gentle hand ruffle his hair. Dean was leaning over him. “G'night, Sammy,” came a whisper. “And … thanks. You're a good big brother.” And then soft footsteps. Sam opened his eyes a fraction in time to see his brother and his angel, hand in hand, sneaking out of the room while the TV still buzzed.

Sam smiled a broad smile, and drifted off, visions of sugarplums, and little Barbie shoes, dancing in his head.


End file.
